


Looking at the Sun

by dreamlittleyo, rivers_bend



Series: A Key to Every Door [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-25
Updated: 2011-04-25
Packaged: 2017-10-18 15:45:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivers_bend/pseuds/rivers_bend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the porny coda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looking at the Sun

Dean thought six days was going to be _forever_ but suddenly it's not nearly enough time. He's afraid this thing they've started out here in the middle of the woods isn't going to work anywhere else. That once they're back in civilization Sam won't climb into the shower and jerk him off, hands slick with soap. That Sam won't press up behind him while Dean makes coffee, fingers teasing at his waistband until Dean is grinding back against his hips, demanding Sam just _stop fooling around_ and touch his damn dick already. Dean's afraid that Sam won't idly rub his fingers along Dean's hairline while he reads, or kiss Dean until they're both breathless and shaking with the need for _more_.

He's even more afraid that once they're back to their real lives, if Sam tries, Dean won't let him.

The day before they're due to leave, they're on the floor in the living room—Dean leaning back against one of the low armchairs, Sam leaning against Dean. They probably shouldn't fit, but somehow they do, Sam's head on Dean's shoulder, his fingers tracing patterns on Dean's thigh. Between that and the pressure of the small of Sam's back against his dick, Dean's starting to not want to leave _ever_ , never mind tomorrow. Flattening a palm against Sam's belly, thrilling at the quiver of the muscles there, Dean says, "So. This haunting in Indiana—"

"It's more an emotional manifestation," Sam interrupts, even though that's totally not the point.

"Yeah," Dean says. "That."

Sam cranes his neck to look at him, smile playing with the corners of his mouth. Like he knows what Dean is about to say, which he probably does. "That?" he asks.

"We have to leave tomorrow?"

"Unless we want to wait another month, hope it doesn't do too much damage this time."

Dean should feel restless. Should _want_ to get back to hunting. He shouldn't sound so reluctant when he says, "Tomorrow it is then."

"Bet there're hotels in Indiana with king-size beds though," says Sam, reaching up to curl fingers around the back of Dean's head and pull him down so they can kiss.

It's a slow kiss, careful and not quite lazy, and it manages to wipe all Dean's concerns out, leaving nothing but a haze of heat and want in their place.

As soon as Dean relaxes into him, Sam tries to twist them down onto the sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace. But Dean discovered yesterday that being naked on the thing leads to wool in places wool should never be, so he rolls an extra time to get on top, and then stands up, tugging Sam with him before the pouty looks start.

Sam has to scramble to his feet, or maybe it's just an excuse to get his hands on Dean's ass. He uses that grip to pulls Dean close, and while Dean's distracted by the feel of Sam's dick nudging against his own, Sam slides his hand down the back of Dean's jeans, fingers teasing at his crack, suggesting something Dean's not entirely sure he's comfortable with. And somehow Sam knows all about it. Of course.

"Shh," he says, when he feels Dean stiffen up, but he doesn't move his fingers.

Dean wants to protest that he's not some kind of chickenshit and that Sam's totally got it wrong, but he's not sure how convincing he'd sound, so he sucks a pink oval into the skin over Sam's collar instead. He backs towards the bedroom and Sam follows, one hand sliding up under Dean's shirt.

With all his previous hook-ups, Dean undressed himself, the times he bothered undressing at all. He'd never given it much thought before—it was just a necessary step before getting to the main event. But Sam treats undressing Dean like it's all _part_ of the main event. Dean's not complaining, except for how it makes him feel fumble-fingered by comparison, still so breathless with _Sam_ that he's barely able to do more than clutch at his brother's clothes and growl, "Off."

Fortunately, Sam has enough coordination to deal with his own clothes as well as Dean's, and doesn't seem averse to following orders. At least not when the orders involve getting naked.

Today Sam is in a treat-Dean's-clothes-like-wrapping-paper mood, because Dean's shirt is long gone and his jeans are half-way down his thighs before they're even through the bedroom door. Dean doesn't have to tug at Sam's clothes; he's out of them before Dean can even try to help.

Somehow they both manage to get tangled in Dean's pants when Sam tries to pull him down onto the bed. Sam oofs as Dean elbows him in the stomach, and Dean only avoids a headbutt with his quick Winchester reflexes. They land laughing, with Dean kicking and Sam pulling, until finally the offending article of clothing is banished to the floor. By the time Sam half covers Dean to start kissing him again, Dean has completely forgotten about Sam's designs on his ass.

Apparently Sam has other plans first anyway, and Dean is _totally_ not freaking out about those. Really.

This is nothing new—Dean can't even count the number of girls who've given him head since Misty Thompson followed him under the bleachers at homecoming—he's totally been here before. Kisses moving down his chest, intent clear; this is a good thing. Blowjobs are a good thing.

Except every time before—well every time for the last ten years at least—when he went to return the favor, he knew what the hell he was doing. This is nothing like all those other times. There's the stubble scraping across his abs, the size of the hands spanning his hips, and the low, rough timbre of the voice that says, "Fuck, Dean, want you so bad," and he just…

Ok. So this _is_ new.

Dean doesn't say "no." He doesn't _want_ to say no, and besides, he's not fucking stupid, and Sam just keeps going. Until, _holy **fuck**_ , he's—

Expecting Misty levels of skill—it was her first time, and while it wasn't exactly bad, it's been an uphill road since—Dean's surprised when Sam's got fucking _talent_ alongside his enthusiasm. There's… he's… it's… yeah. Either he did some _serious_ research or they need to talk about what he got up to at Stanford. Except for how they really don't. _Christ_.

Dean ends up totally embarrassing himself with his speed across the finish line, but Sam seems to take it as a compliment, grinning and slurping and nuzzling and making happy little whimpers like when Dean jacks him slow and hard and pulls on his nuts. As he remembers how to get air into his lungs, Dean takes a moment to marvel at the fact it's only taken three days for him to be pretty much totally ok with having that kind of knowledge about his brother.

His brother who gives really great head, and damn. How the hell is Dean supposed to live up to that?

There has to be _something_ in his eyes to give him away, Dean's sure of it. Not because Sam notices, but because Dean's pretty sure he's got no poker face left. And the stubborn force with which Sam _Does Not Notice_ as he slides back up Dean's body to nuzzle at his throat? Dead giveaway right there. His brother knows him too well.

But Sam's not calling him on it. Not laughing or smiling or looking at him with syrupy eyes. Not offering any pointers either, and _those_ Dean's pretty sure he could use. Christ, he kind of wishes he were drunk right now. Then he could at least not _care_ that his brother gives head a million times better than he can hope to mimic.

Sam kisses him, and Dean knows that taste on his brother's tongue. Slow, deep thrust of a kiss, and Dean feels Sam's erection against his hip. Knows he's got to find a way to return the favor.

But when Dean makes his move, Sam stops him.

"I want—" Sam says, and he— Christ. Dean's pretty sure Sam's _blushing_ , so he doesn't launch into the speech he was about to give about how just because Dean hasn't been some kind of cockslut in college doesn't mean he can't man up and suck dick when he needs to.

Or (and this is kind of a surprise), _wants_ to.

"I won't— I mean, not yet, not until you want me to, but can I just..?" Definitely blushing, Sam buries his face in Dean's neck.

"Sam?" Dean can **not** imagine what Sam wants that is making him stammer and change color, but then he remembers Sam's fingers tracing his ass earlier and starts stammering himself.

"You wanna— wait. Um—"

Sam laughs. "God, you'd think we were fourteen and about to pop each other's cherry in the Sunday School room or something."

"You did _not_ lose your virginity when you were fourteen."

"No, I waited until I was old enough to do it without sounding like a fucking idiot asking if she wanted to. Clearly I shoulda taken notes or something."

"So you _are_ asking." There's still a knot of terror in the pit of Dean's stomach, but his dick is not entirely averse to the idea if the way it's throbbing is any indication.

"Well I want to, yeah, but maybe not tonight. That's a—have you ever..?"

"No!" Dean doesn't mean to sound quite that shocked and horrified. "No," he says again. "I mean, you know—" He's not sure how to convey _You're the only guy I've ever really thought about this with, so it's all pretty new to me_ with a gesture, but he tries.

"Well, it's not really something we want to rush into. But I…" Sam groans and hauls Dean close, kissing him like he's gonna die of hunger if he doesn't, and Dean starts to lose the thread of what they were talking about again.

 _Damn, he's good._

"D'you trust me?" Sam asks when he's kissed Dean half-hard again.

"'Course."

"Roll over."

Dean trusts Sam with his life, but he's not sure he trusts _anyone_ with his ass. Still, he rolls over and rests his head in his arms, waiting to see what Sam has in mind that isn't fucking. Imagination fueled by pay-per-view porn, Dean figures Sam wants to jerk off on his ass or something. He doesn't expect a rich herby smell followed by Sam's hands slipping heavy up his back.

"Hmm wha?—nngh," he says, surprise turning into a groan as Sam digs deep into the muscles of Dean's shoulders. He wonders for a minute if the massage oil is something Sam carries around in his duffle or if it's yet another of Richard's supplies, but then Sam's doing an intricate thumbs-rolling-up-Dean's-neck thing, and, really, who the hell cares where the stuff came from?

The hunting life doesn't exactly lend itself to a lot of time for massage, and the ones Dean's had have mostly been flirty neck-rubs from girls wanting to get in his pants. A post-orgasm, full-on back rub with the weight of a Sasquatch behind it is a whole other thing entirely. A thing Dean _really_ wouldn't mind getting used to. In about five minutes he feels like his skeleton is off somewhere doing something else and he's just a pile of mmmmmm sinking into the bed. He's almost asleep by the time Sam moves on to his legs, rubbing the spicy-sweet oil in with long sweeping motions. Dean murmurs appreciatively when Sam slides slick hands up his arms.

"Just want to feel you," Sam whispers in Dean's ear, and then he's lying on Dean's back, slip-sliding weight electrifying Dean's skin.

Sensation everywhere: the points of Sam's nipples against Dean's shoulder blades, the crisp rough of pubes on Dean's ass, and _oh, yes, fuck_ , the thick thrust of Sam's dick sliding between Dean's thighs. It makes Dean squirm and rub his own dick, which is distinctly no longer relaxed, against the sheets. He wants to spread his legs and give Sam more room and he wants to squeeze tighter, feel more. He even, if Sam wanted—

"Just like this, okay?" Sam's voice is low in Dean's ear, and he's everywhere at once, slick-hot friction setting Dean on fire. Rolling his hips against the curve of Dean's ass, Sam's fucking between Dean's legs, nudging his cockhead up against Dean's sac, sending little shudders of pleasure up his spine.

"Yeah," Dean manages. "Yes. Fuck."

Sam weaves their fingers together and drags their knotted fists above Dean's head, holding tight to get more leverage. The oil's making everything slippery and Dean's trying to stay still so Sam doesn't slide right off, but he has to move, grind back into Sam's thrusts, lift his shoulders into the flex of Sam's pecs, roll his head in a silent plea for Sam to bite his neck. His thighs are caged by Sam's knees, calves held down by Sam's feet, and he should feel trapped but he feels safe. Safe and _seriously_ horny.

The heated slip of Sam's dick teases Dean's hole and the sensitive skin behind his balls, making Dean want more, closer, harder, anything. "Sam," he says helplessly, pleading.

"Just like this. Just like this. Just…" Sam sounds dazed, little whimpers breaking up his words, and then _finally_ his teeth sink in to the perfect spot right behind Dean's ear and he jerks, pulsing wet and hot between Dean's legs.

Dean had thought Sam was heavy before, but when Sam collapses on top of him after coming, he realizes the error. Sam is a _monster_ ; Dean can't breathe. Massage oil is totally his friend though, because with a thrust of his shoulder and twist of his hips, Dean manages to slide Sam half off onto the bed.

"Oh my _god_ ," Sam says and struggles to unknot their fingers. "Holy fuck."

Trying to wipe the smug grin off his face, Dean counters with: "Imagine how good it'll be when you're inside me."

Sam, finally free of Dean's fingers, hooks an arm around him and pulls him in until Dean's nestled against his side. "Christ. You're trying to kill me."

"Nope." Dean's pretty sure Sam realizes that's the last thing Dean wants.

"Are you, you know, serious?" Sam's nudging his chin against Dean's forehead like he wants Dean to look at him, but Dean keeps his head on Sam's chest, eyes safely on Sam's left nipple.

When Sam gives up the nudging, Dean nods, unable to say aloud again that he wants his brother to fuck him.

"You need..?" Sam moves his free hand down to where Dean's cock is hard against his hip.

"Nah," Dean says. He's still feeling it where Sam sucked his brains out earlier and is enjoying the low throb of arousal against Sam's skin for now. The slick of come on his nuts is probably going to be uncomfortable soon, but he can hear Sam's heartbeat and they're breathing in sync and it's all very sleepy. "Nap now," he says. Or at least tries to say, but he might be asleep before he finishes.

 

The sound of the shower wakes him, but when Dean rolls over it's not to an empty pillow but to Sam propped on one elbow giving him a ridiculously sappy smile.

"Hey," Sam says.

"Wastin' water?"

"Just letting it get warm while I come and get you."

"Dinner time?"

"Oh, yeah," Sam promises. "Soon as we smell a little less like the prom king's back seat."

Dean laughs. "What?"

"Never mi— Just get in the damn shower." Sam's laughing too as he drags Dean bodily out of bed.

"You didn't," Dean says, pretty sure he's right, but not one hundred percent. "You didn't have _sex_ with the prom king in the back seat of his car did you?"

Sam's laugh turns into an incredulous snort. "I'm pretty sure the prom king would have shot me in the head with his daddy's gun before he fucked me in the back seat." He pulls Dean closer and gives him a look that says he knows Dean's jealous and he likes it.

"Egomaniac."

Sam snorts again. "Now we're wasting water."

With the cabin's tiny hot water heater, it's already starting to get cold by the time they get in, so they get clean as quickly as possible and get out again, no time for anything else.

While Dean rummages for food, Sam gets out Dad's journal and his notes on the hunt in Indiana. He didn't bother with a shirt after their shower, so he's all sleek muscles bunching and flexing as he turns pages, damp hair curling over his neck and tongue peeking out of his mouth in concentration. Dean wonders if maybe he should try the tongue thing too, when he looks down and finds he's gotten out a can of chicken soup and a can of Mexican-style mixed beans.

He turns to tell Sam to go put a shirt on so he can find something that they might actually want to eat, but what comes out is, "So king-sized beds, huh?"

Sam smiles and Dean's interest in food disappears entirely. "Yep," Sam says.

"Just in case they're all booked up," Dean says while advancing on Sam where he sits at the table, "maybe we better make as much use of this one as we can."

"Not that we can't make use of two queens," Sam counters. "That way neither of us has to sleep in the wet spot."

"Still." Dean passes Sam and turns to back towards the bedroom, undoing the buttons on his jeans as he moves.

Sam knocks the chair over in his haste to get up, not bothering to catch it before it hits the floor. "Good point." He catches up to Dean in four long strides, steers him backwards until he's close enough to sweep Dean off his feet, throw him on the bed, and pull Dean's jeans the rest of the way off. It's like some god-awful romance movie and Dean really wants to protest but he's far too busy palming his dick so he doesn't shoot before Sam finishes stripping down. Then Sam is on top of him, moaning as he licks into Dean's mouth, and Dean decides he won't even care if Sam starts in with "You had me at 'Hello'," so long as they can keep doing this. He starts to think about how that makes Sam the girl even if he can pick Dean up and throw him, but Sam's hand is on his cock, and all of Dean's higher brain functions are only distant memory.

He doesn't think in words again until he's sliding Sam's dick into his mouth, and then what he thinks is, _clearly_ neither _of us is the girl here_.

Dean learns three things about sucking dick: it's hard to do it _badly_ , it's gonna take some practice to be as good as Sam, and he's totally fine with that. If Dean's translated Sam's babbling and clutching fingers correctly, there will be no arguments from him.

It's after midnight when they finally sit down to lukewarm chicken soup and stale saltines. They agree on a route for the next day and work up a game plan for Indiana.

Nothing is changed, except for how Sam looks genuinely happy whenever he catches Dean's eyes, and Dean can actually picture how it will be. They'll still argue over who has to pump the gas, and Sam will complain when Dean listens to the same tape three hours in a row, and try to talk Dean out of crashing yet another funeral even though he _knows_ they get the best information at funerals. Only now, Dean won't have to pretend to be a talent scout when he wants sex, he can just shove Sam up against a wall and chew on his neck. And sometimes instead of jerking off in the shower, there might be blow jobs.

"I can live with that," he says, even though he totally just meant to think it.

Sam doesn't even skip a beat, although the last thing he'd said was, "This soup really tastes better when it's hot." He just gives Dean another sappy smile and says, "Good, because you're stuck with me."


End file.
